“A flesh wound only, I think; just above the ankle—­the tendon cut, but the bone apparently not broken.”

“It may be splintered, though,” said Dorothea.  “Has anyone thought of sending for Doctor Ibbetson?  He must be fetched at once.  A towel, please—­three or four—­from the dresser there.”  A footman brought the towels.  She knelt, folded two on her lap, and, resting Raoul’s foot there, drew the stocking gently from the wound.  “A basin and warm water, not too hot.  Polly, you will find a small sponge in the, second drawer . . .”  She nodded towards the medicine chest.  “One of you, make up a better fire and set on a fresh kettle . . .”

She gave her orders in a low firm voice, and continued to direct everyone thus, while she sponged the wound and drew off the stocking.  Neither towards them nor towards Raoul did she lift her eyes.  The bare foot of her beloved rested in her lap.  She heard him groan twice, but with no pain inflicted by her fingers; if their slightest pressure had hurt him she would have known.  She went on bathing the wound—­she, who could have bathed it with her tears.  As time passed, and still the doctor did not come, she began to bandage it.  She called on Polly for the bandages; then, still without looking up, she divined that Polly was useless—­was engaged in trying to catch Zeally’s eye, and warn him or get a word with him.

“He’s pale as a ghost yet,” said Endymion.  “Another dose of brandy might set him up.  I gave him some from my flask before bringing him in.”

“He is not going to faint,” she answered.

“Well, I won’t bother him with questions until he comes round a bit.  You, Zeally, had better step into my room though, and give me your version of the affair.”

But as the Corporal saluted and took a step forward, the prisoner opened his eyes.

“Before you examine Zeally, sir, let me save you what trouble I can.”  He spoke faintly, but with deliberation.  “I wish to deny nothing.  I was escaping, and he tracked me.  He came on me as I cut across the park, and challenged.  I did not answer, but ran around a corner of the house and jumped the parapet, thinking to double along the trench there and put him off the scent—­at least to dodge the bullet, if he fired.  But as I jumped for it, he winged me.  A very pretty shot, too.  With your leave, sir, I ’d like to shake hands with him on it.  Shake hands, Corporal!” Raoul stretched out a hand, sideways.  “You’re a smart fellow, and no malice between soldiers.”

Dorothea heard Polly’s gasp:  it seemed to her that all the room must hear it.  Her own hand trembled on the bandage.  She had forgotten her danger—­the all but inevitable scandal—­until Raoul brought it back to her, and in the same breath saved her by his heroic lie.  She could not profit by it, though.  Her lips parted to refute it, and for the first time she gazed up at him, her eyes brimming with sudden love, gratitude, pride, even while they